


trying to do it right

by irishmizzy



Category: The Office (US)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 11:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irishmizzy/pseuds/irishmizzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He never expected to be in Scranton for three months, let alone three years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	trying to do it right

**Author's Note:**

> For [nothing_hip](http://nothing-hip.livejournal.com)'s "Ho Hey" challenge.

They’re not really supposed to interact with the “subjects,” technically, but once you start spending nine hours a day with the same people pretending you’re invisible kind of goes out the window. They’re definitely not supposed to have favorites, but early on Brian gets assigned to follow the receptionist and the floppy-haired kid and that was that. He never expected to be in Scranton for three months, let alone three years. 

He never expected a lot of things.

**

“Sorry you guys had to sit through that,” Pam says as they leave the restaurant. Her date hadn’t been a disaster -- Lord knows Brian’s been on far, far worse -- it had just been dull.

“It’s why we’re here." He shrugs and chucks his gear into the back of the van.

“Yeah, but that -- " Pam makes a face. "That was probably about as interesting as selling paper."

"It wasn't that bad."

Pam scoffs and hands him the mic pack she had tucked into her waistband. 

"Seriously," he says. "There are so many worse things we could be filming. Like frogs in some jungle, or, I don't know, government workers in Indiana."

“When was the last time a documentary about paper won an Oscar?”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

Pam rolls her eyes. "Yeah, well. Sorry my social life is ruining yours."

"At least one of us has one, right?" 

She nods once, hesitantly, like she's not sure if she wants the one she's got. Or one at all. He knows the feeling. Blind dates fucking suck.

He wants to tell her she's doing good, that Halpert was a dick for leaving like he did and she should be proud that she's trying new shit and whatnot, but he doesn't know how to make it sound normal and not like, weird or patronizing or whatever. They’re friends -- they’ve been friends for a while now, but still. There are lines. So he stays quiet, stares off into the darkness of the parking lot.

In the distance Brian can see the rest of the guys coming around the corner of the building. They'd gone to get a few minutes of Ryan and Kelly before calling it a night and had generously let Brian skip it. Those two going at it near some dumpsters doesn't really require sound. Thank God.

Pam clears her throat. "Okay, well. See you tomorrow." 

"Yeah." Brian tosses her pack from hand to hand and watches her walk away. "You should freedom braid your hair," he calls out.

She turns back, laughing even though it’s not funny. "Maybe I will."

"Think fast!" someone else yells and then a mic pack is flying at Brian's head. When he looks back to where Pam had been, all he sees are tail lights. 

**

There are times that he’s secretly glad Jim fled. Now that he’s gone, Pam jokes around with Brian a lot more. She jokes around with everyone a lot more, really. It’s good that more people get to see that side of her, like she’s finally coming out of her shell.

**

“Hey.” Pam waves him over to her desk while everyone else is leaving for the day. It’s late enough that she already has her coat on. “I have something for you.”

“Is it a bird coffin? Because I saw one today -- beautiful model, very tasteful -- and it made me think I could probably use a couple of my own.”

“No, but I know where you can get one,” she says, laughing. “Here.”

Brian’s too busy trying to think of a better joke than Beesly Bird Coffins to notice that Pam is nudging something across the reception desk to him. She taps it a couple times and raises her eyebrows.

“What’s this?” It looks like a paper cup with a plastic Lego man on top of it. He remembers the Lego guy from the day awhile back when Michael had made everyone gather in the conference room and act out sales calls. They'd used Lego people because Michael thought they were less intimidating and people would enjoy using funny Lego man ("Or woman," Angela had said angrily) voices. Predictably, Michael was the only person who enjoyed any of it.

That had been the crew's first week of shooting.

“It's your Oscar," Pam says, watching him as he picks it up. In her careful cursive the cup says Outstanding Microphone-Holding in a Moderately-Boring Documentary.

Brian opens his mouth to make a crack about her not thinking they can win an _actual_ Oscar but when he looks up, she's watching him so carefully that any joke dies in his throat. 

"I started it after the restaurant, as a joke, but then Jan made me monitor Michael's work and I got busy and --"

"It's great," he says. "I love it."

"It's dumb."

"It’s awesome." It makes a hollow sound when he taps it against the desk. The Lego man has black headphones drawn on and is holding a tiny, handmade boom. "Is that pipe cleaner?"

"And part of a paper clip, yup."

Brian grins. "You're amazing."

She shrugs like it's nothing but he doesn't miss the way her eyes are bright, happy. He tries not to think about how sad she'd seemed for awhile last year, and then again a couple months ago, after she called off the wedding. 

The phone rings and she sighs, glancing at the clock behind her. "Dunder Mifflin, this is Pam. No, he's not here right now, would you like to leave a message?"

"I'm going to -- " Brian motions to the crew's locker room and Pam nods while she reaches for a pen. He sets the trophy on the top shelf of his locker, next to an extra shirt and some Red Bulls, and thinks, for the umpteenth time, how glad he is that he didn’t get shipped to Stamford.

"Seriously, Pam," he says, pulling the locker room door back open, but she's already gone. He's talking to himself.

**

Things get hard when the branches merge. Even though they’d had their own crew in Stamford, the new people are only sort of okay with the cameras. Even Jim seems uncomfortable at first. It’s stressful, trying to coax them into acting naturally. It’s like they’re back to square one, stuck dealing with everyone from a distance while they remind the Stamford transfers to pretend the crew’s invisible. There’s no room for joking around anymore and Brian feels like he’s constantly on edge because of it. Like the whole office is constantly on edge. 

He loses track of who’s quit and who’s in anger management and who’s at work, whether Kelly and Ryan are together or broken-up. Whether Pam and Roy are back together or not.

By the time things finally settle down again, Brian’s exhausted. It’s been a long couple of months, is all.

**

Pam looks up when the stairwell door swings open. 

“I’m fine,” she says immediately, even though her eyes are red and Roy just charged at Jim and Brian’s pretty sure no one’s fine, least of all her.

“You sure?” 

She nods and, when he’s closer, slides over to make room for him on the bench. The lobby’s blissfully quiet since Hank’s upstairs, dealing with that whole mess.

“Please don’t make me talk to the cameras right now,” Pam says suddenly. Her voice sounds so small. 

“What? No, that’s -- “ he exhales heavily. Jesus, he feels like she just punched him in the gut. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“Oh.” It’s quiet for a moment and then she says, “Thanks.” When she looks up her eyes are watery again. She blinks fast a few times and looks back to the front doors.

Brian’s hand is halfway up before he realizes that patting her on the shoulder would be pathetic. He drops it back into his lap as casually as possible. Besides, he should probably leave -- Pam deserves some privacy. He just needs to find a way to get up without making her feel like she needs to go back to work, too.

“It’s been a weird year,” she says quietly.

It’s such a fucking understatement that Brian chuckles. “Yeah. I mean, remember that bird funeral?”

When she laughs it’s the gross, throaty kind that’s only happens when you’ve been crying, but still. It’s better than nothing. It has been a weird year, but it hasn’t been all terrible. He thinks of Pam’s art show and that whole Christmas party she threw with Karen, the speech she gave at the bird funeral and what a far cry it all is from the girl whose boss threw paper basketballs at her head in those first few months of shooting.

“You’re doing good, Pam,” he says. 

“Thanks.” 

She leans into him slightly, so their shoulders are pressed together. He can feel it when she sighs. He makes sure he stays very still.

**

It’s slow-going, but things get better after that. Brian doesn’t say anything, but it’s a fucking relief. 

**

It takes Michael twenty minutes to figure out the best way for everyone to board the bus. Brian stands near Jim for a while, mic held up so he can catch the bets he and Karen are placing on whether or not Michael will assign everyone seats.

Shockingly, everyone tolerates Michael’s indecisiveness pretty well. It’s a testament to how excited they all are for the beach. Brian’s pretty sure the camera catches Angela smiling for a second, but then she notices them and it’s gone. 

Slowly Brian makes his way down the line until he’s at the end, just waiting to board.

“You look cute today, Brian,” Pam says, one hundred percent sarcastic. Sometimes he thinks about Pam from a few years ago, how she was quiet and seemed so small. That feels like a lifetime ago.

He looks down at his shirt. It’s the same thing he wears every day. “What?”

“Nothing!” Pam turns so she’s facing the front of the line again. “I just didn’t realize this was a formal beach event.”

“I’m working. I’m dressed for work.”

“I think you look nice.”

“Thanks, Kelly,” Brian says.

“More guys should wear collared shirts all the time. Hoodies are boring. It’s like come on, make an effort. You know?” She wraps her arms around Ryan and he turns his head to glare like it’s is all Brian’s fault.

Pam at least has the decency to muffle her laugh in her sleeve.

**

They’re barely at the beach for ten minutes before Brian takes his collared shirt off. It’s hot and sure, his 2004 Pistons shirt is kind of threadbare, but whatever. It’s pretty warm out.

“Here.” Pam holds her hand out. “I’ll put it in my bag so you don’t lose it.”

“Thanks.”

She shrugs. “Anything’s better than you tying it around your shoulders.”

“I would nev-- “

“Oh, I’m sorry, was that some other sound guy who did that when the guys played the warehouse in basketball?”

Brian pauses, dumbstruck. He’d completely forgotten about that. 

“I’m pretty sure you’re thinking of someone else,” he says eventually, but it’s too late, Pam’s already heading over to where Michael’s standing. Brian grabs his shit and follows the rest of the crew across the sand.

**

It sucks, being at the beach and having to work while everyone else plays games. He sighs when Michael pulls out the blindfolds. Pam catches his eye; she’s stuck taking notes for Michael about people’s indefinable qualities and yet somehow no one’s figured out what’s going on. Though, to be fair, Michael being cagey and weird isn’t out of the norm. 

Brian jumps when something cold hits his neck, flinching in a way that probably drops the boom into view. Fuck.

“Sorry!” Pam half-whispers. “You’re getting red.” She finishes rubbing sunscreen into his neck and ducks under his arm. She squints while she does his face, careful not to get it in his eyes or hair. Her fingers are gentle. Brian closes his eyes because the other option is just staring at her, two inches away, her hair all flyaway in the breeze. She flicks his chin when she’s done. He blinks his eyes open and she’s still right there, smiling.

“You’ll thank me later.”

“Pam! Stanley gets a thumbs up, make sure to write it down!” Michael yells as he jogs by.

She makes a face and steps away. “Can’t miss a thumbs up.” 

“PAM!” 

She rolls her eyes and jogs away. Brian adjusts his grip on the fishpole. His neck feels hot. Pam was right, he was getting burnt.

**

Half the crew’s set filming the egg races so Brian sneaks away to where Pam’s standing, staring at the grills.

“No one’s going to eat eight hundred hot dogs,” she says.

“Don’t tell Dwight what he can’t do!” Brian sets his boom across one of the tables and wipes his hands on his shirt. “Where do you need me?”

“Oh it’s --” she starts and then reconsiders, hands him a bag of buns. “Here. When they come off the grill, put them on a plate.”

“Got it.”

Pam starts throwing hot dogs onto the grill. She goes still when he reaches around her for a pair of tongs, his arm brushing hers, both their skin slick with sweat. 

“Do we get a prize for cooking all these?” he asks once the silence gets to be too much. 

She tosses more hot dogs on; he rotates at the ones that look closer to done. It’s a pretty effective assembly line. “I’ll be sure to give you a smiley face.”

“Great.”

About a hundred dogs in, Pam says, “I’m never going to be able to look at hot dogs again.”

“You’re never going to win an eating contest with that attitude, Pam.”

He doesn’t see the face she makes, but he knows she makes one. He’s pretty sure he could picture it, even, the eyeroll and half-smile she gets when she’s trying to hide that she’s actually amused.

**

“Here,” he says, when they’re almost done. He bumps Pam’s hand with the edge of the paper plate to get her attention.

“That’s Michael's.”

“No, that one’s his.” Brian nods at the turkey burger sitting on the table next to her. He watches her look at that one and then at the burger in front of her. Her eyes get huge when she makes the connection and Brian squints because everything feels too bright suddenly. “There were two,” he says even though she knows that now. He ends up shaking the plate at her. “Quick! Before he comes back and decides he wants you to make him a turkey Big Mac to order.”

Pam frowns. “Please don’t make a gross joke about special sauce right now.”

“But if I make you lose your appetite, then I get the turkey burger.”

“Nice try. Now cover me.” She grabs the plate and ducks behind him to eat.

Brian keeps cooking hot dogs while she uses him as a human shield. 

Pam pokes him square in the back. “Thanks.” 

“Any time,” he says, looking over his shoulder and winking.

She chuckles and pushes at his hip until he turns, providing better coverage. He pokes at a couple hot dogs, watches them char up until they’re burnt black. He blames them for the way his face feels warm.

That’s the last calm moment before Michael spills the beans about the promotion and pretty much everyone loses their shit.

**

It’s predictable, really, the way Michael builds the whole day up to the coal walk and then refuses to do it. Though it’s possible that _not_ doing it is one of the smartest ideas Michael’s ever had. It doesn’t seem like something that could end well.

Brian sill feels a little sick after having watched Dwight.

Pam, though -- Pam had wanted to do it from the beginning. Still, when they’d hung back by the coal pit with a camera it had mostly been for cross-shots and coverage of everyone around the bonfire, not because they were expecting Pam to go for it. 

He’s so fucking glad they’re there, though. Forget the documentary, he’s just glad he gets to see the look on her face when she turns around, bursting with pride and shock. It’s like she can’t believe she actually did it. Brian’s own heart is pounding and he knows he’s grinning like an idiot, too, but he can’t stop. A part of him wants to drop everything and high five her or hug her or something, anything to let her know how incredible that was.

She runs to where everyone is sitting, listening to Michael, and starts talking. It takes a minute, but eventually Brian follows.

**

Brian’s the last one on the bus and by the time he boards, everyone is dead silent. The only open seat is all the way at the back, by Pam, and for a second Brian considers standing or squishing in with Oscar and Angela instead of bothering her. 

She moves her bag when he gets closer, though. He tries not to think about how the bottom of his jeans are soaked because he had to stand in the water and listen to her and Jim hash it out. He’d taken his headphones off halfway through, partly because it felt private, but mostly because he just couldn’t stand there and listen to it. He thinks about her face lit up by the fire instead, how proud she’d looked. Triumphant. Glowing.

“How are you feeling?” he asks eventually. Pam’s staring outside, watching as the streetlights are grow more and more frequent. They’re almost back to Dunder Mifflin. 

Pam chuckles, her breath fogging up the window. “I -- I’m good,” she says eventually. She looks at him and smiles, face bright in the dark. Brian smiles back and reaches out and touches her leg. He hopes it’s reassuring. 

It must be, because Pam covers his hand with her own and leans back in her seat. 

**

Pam winces when she stands up, grits her teeth and inhales sharply. It’s not that loud, almost gets lost the quiet rumble of everyone gathering their things and slowly shuffling off the bus, but Brian hears it and reaches out automatically, his hand hovering by her elbow until she’s steady. 

“Michael and I should start a cooked foot club.” 

“Dwight’s going to petition to join.” 

Pam shakes her head. “Feet only. No cooked knees allowed.” 

Brian chuckles. Pam shifts her weight and makes another face. 

“Do you need a piggyback ride?” 

She just laughs and he lets her pass him, watching as she walks down the aisle. 

**

There’s sand all over his gear and ketchup -- at least, he fucking hopes it’s ketchup -- crusted on in one spot, so it takes Brian longer than everyone else to pack it in for the night. 

He’s almost finished when there’s a knock on the door frame. It’s probably one of the guys, running back up to grab keys or a jacket or something else they forgot, so Brian doesn’t turn around. He finishes chucking stuff into his locker and shuts the door.

“Man, I am -- Pam.” It’s a shock to see her standing there, leaning against the wall.

“Brian,” she corrects, smiling. She points to herself. “Pam.”

“I thought it was -- I didn’t think it was you. What’re you doing here?” 

Pam frowns. Shit, he sounds like an idiot. Maybe he got too much sun and this is like, delayed sunstroke that’s fucking up his brain and making him forget how to talk to humans. “Is everything okay?”

“Oh yeah, I just still had your shirt.”

“Oh, thanks. I forgot.” She walks across the room to give it to him. “Are you sure you’re okay?

“Yeah.” 

He must need to work on his poker face because Pam tilts her head and says, “Seriously, I’m fine. They’re not even a little crispy.”

“Gross.” 

Pam elbows him and they both laugh. She leans back against the lockers and Brian finds himself doing the same.

“It was worth it.”

“Fuck yeah, it was amazing. Unbelievable.”

Pam’s smile looks like it could split her face in half. She’s got her hand on his arm and she’s still laughing a little, like she’s drunk on the excitement of it all. It’s contagious, because Brian feels like a live wire, energy and adrenaline crackling through his body. He tilts his head back against the lockers and looks up at the lights.

“Hey,” Pam says, and when he looks at her she already leaning up to kiss him. Brain’s brain short circuits when Pam fists her hand in his t-shirt, her nails scratching lightly against his chest. He drops his shirt she brought back when he reaches up to cup her cheeks, hoping that she doesn’t notice the way his heart’s hammering against his chest. He wonders if she’s thought about this before, too, if she’s wanted this the way he has.

He slides one hand down her neck and Pam gasps, her mouth opening under his. When Brian takes a step, she moves with him automatically so he can press her up against the lockers. 

“Fuck, Pam,” he whispers when she arches against him, his mouth dragging wetly across her cheek. She wraps her hand around the back of his neck and reels him back in. She’s so warm, from a day in the sun or this, who knows. Brian doesn’t care, he just wants to soak up as much of it as he can.

Pam’s the one who pulls away. “It’s late,” she says, a little breathless. Brian hums against her cheek and rubs his thumb against the skin at her waist. She kisses him again, softer, slower, her fingers playing with the short hairs at the nape of his neck. 

“Let me at least walk you out,” he says when she pulls back the next time. Pam nods.

They’re quiet on the walk to their cars. Every time their hands brush accidentally, Brian thinks about holding hers. He can’t work up the nerve to do it, though.

Pam presses a last kiss to the corner of his mouth before she gets into her car. “See you soon?”

Brain nods. “Definitely.” He stands there, staring, until she’s all the way out of the parking lot.

**

He talks to Pam a couple times over the weekend, under the guise of checking on her barbecued feet. It’s not awkward, not even for a second, and Brian breathes a sigh of relief. He assumes she knows his ulterior motive, but she never calls him on it, and by the time they roll into work on Monday, things are back to normal.

Or at least, as close to normal as things ever are. Brian pretends not to notice the way Pam keeps sneaking glances at him during the day. It’s only fair because Pam never calls him out when she catches him watching her.

It’s easy to ignore those things, though, because between Michael planning his exit for Corporate and appointing Dwight his successor, things go crazy real fast. It doesn’t help that half the crew goes to New York with Jim and Karen and Michael, leaving Brian and everyone left in Scranton scrambling to film Dwight’s semi-hostile takeover. 

It takes running into Pam in the break room during a rare quiet moment -- literally, since part of Dwight’s regime involves strictly-enforced quiet time -- for them to get a chance to exchange more than basic pleasantries.

“How’s it going?”

Pam blows out a breath and punches the number for Twix. “Busy. But that’s to be expected now that I’m Secret Assistant to the Regional Manager.”

Brian laughs and leans against the vending machine. She opens the wrapper and offers him one. He chews and tells himself to suck it up and ask her out this weekend. Make it clear it would be in a non-documentary setting. 

He doesn’t get the chance. Dwight finds them and spends five minutes reprimanding them for violating the rules of Ruhezeit before ordering them back to work.

**

Brian’s not a total dick. It’s about time Jim finally got his shit together and came back for her. He’s happy for Pam. He really is. 

He wonders how many times he’ll have to repeat it to convince himself it’s true.

**

Pam finds him in the locker room that evening, once most everyone else has gone home. 

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“For what?”

Pam makes a face, exasperated and frustrated and upset all at once, and suddenly Brian’s feeling guilty. “I wrote him a note,” she says. “A dumb note, to say good luck on his interview. I didn’t think he’d come back.”

“I know.” The shitty thing is he _does_ know. No one could’ve anticipated this. “You don’t have to apologize.”

“Brian.”

“It’s fine, Pam, don’t worry about it.” He chuckles flatly, rubs his hand across the back of his neck. “I mean, it’s probably for the best. We’re technically not supposed to interact with the subjects anyway.”

It comes out meaner than he meant. He regrets it instantly but he can’t make the words come out to apologize. All he can see is Halpert banging through the doorway and Pam’s stupidly joyous grin. 

He’s happy for her. He really is.

Pam doesn’t react. She blinks and hesitates, just for a second, before she kisses him on the cheek. She doesn’t say anything when she leaves. He thinks it’s maybe worse that way, but it’s not like she owes him anything.

Brian waits a while to leave, just to avoid seeing anyone in the parking lot. He spends the whole time listening to the clock tick, wishing he’d had the foresight to stash a bottle of Jack somewhere in here. He could really use a fucking drink. 

When he finally opens his locker to grab his jacket, the first thing he sees is the fake Oscar Pam gave him after the bird funeral. Fuck, that feels like forever ago. He reaches out and touches the pipe cleaner microphone. He stares at it for a minute before moving it behind some cans of Red Bull.

He slams the door shut and reminds himself that he’s happy for her. He really, really is.


End file.
